Prove It
by Nephthys Moon
Summary: A meddling TARDIS, not satisfied that the Doctor dances once, is determined to make him dance again - and again - and again - until he gets the message. Inspired by tags on a post by lauraxxtennant on tumblr, written for day 8 of the doctor who fest.


They'd been to Rassilon knew how many places since picking up Harkness, and he might lie to the humans, claiming he had no idea how they'd ended up in so many places that required dancing, but he'd begun to suspect it had something to do with his wayward time-and-space ship – the one he was currently threatening with a mallet.

"One more, old girl, and it'll be the time rotor that feels _this_," he said softly, waving the mallet as threateningly as he could without making a spectacle of himself. He'd been doing enough of _that_ lately, thankyouverymuch.

It had started innocently enough. Dance with Rose, just to prove he _could_ – and to keep Handsy Captain Jack from – well, getting handsy. Shoulda known that would get outta hand quick. Ever since, they'd landed on in the middle of one dance or another, with Rose asking excitedly if he could teach her how to do the 'alien' dances she saw the others performing. Of _course_ he had to show her. Couldn't have her wandering off with some stranger – look what happened the last time she had! He'd ended up with Captain Shags Anything That Breathes (and – he suspected several things that didn't).

The first time had been simple enough, really. Innocent, even. "Of course I know how to do the Spanish Panic, Rose," he'd said in his bored voice. They were on Madrid (the planet, not the city) and had not-so-surprisingly-in-hindsight landed in the middle of the planet's annual music festival. The locals were literally dancing in the streets, and she'd turned to him, with her wide, tongue-in-teeth grin, and asked him that ridiculous question, to which there was only one response. He _was_ so impressive, after all.

Her grin had gotten wider, not that he'd believed it was possible, and she'd held out her arms in anticipation. "Prove it." The words were a challenge, one she knew he couldn't back down from, and so was the glint in her brilliant hazel eyes. Without time for conscious thought, he'd swept her off into the crowd, teaching her the steps as they got pulled into the crush of humanity (well, technically, it was only about twenty percent humanity at this point, but who was really counting anymore) and down the street. He'd lost sight of the TARDIS, of Jack, and of just about everything but her smile and eyes before the dance was over. It wasn't until hours later that they'd realized just how far from the TARDIS they actually were, and while he'd grumbled and moaned about it, she'd just laughed, smiled that gorgeous, irritating smile, and danced the damned _Spanish Panic_ back to the TARDIS alone, with him stalking next to her, determined not to get carried away like that again.

Harkness had been leaning against the doors, the smirk that should have marred his features only making him even _more_ attractive, with his arms crossed in his trench and his eyes laughing. There'd been no need for words, and thankfully, for once, the man hadn't said any. He'd just laughed and allowed himself to be ushered into the TARDIS, no questions asked, no witty comments or innuendos.

After the Spanish Panic had come, in rapid succession, the Tritellian Tango, the Yranian Romp, the Belsinian Bump, and that wasn't even counting the planet that was completely obsessed with the Cupid Shuffle (which somehow, someway, Rose had already known –as had Harkness – and had insisted on dancing). On each planet, she'd given him that _look_ – the one that said 'You think you're _so_ impressive', while asking him if he knew the local dances, with that maddening grin – the one that made his stomach clench (as well as other parts of his anatomy, ones that he was resolutely not thinking about – especially when she was right. Bloody. There.). And like it was written across the stars themselves, he'd always answer, "Rose, of course I know the Asgardian Swing (or whatever other ridiculous dance was going on around them at the time)!"

And her smile would grow wider. And she would hold out her arms expectantly, like she had in that wreck of a hospital during the Blitz, with that familiar look in her eyes, the one that tormented him with all of its promise – that one that terrified him and electrified him at the same time, because she couldn't really mean it, could she? And then she would laugh, just a little, with that sensuous, taunting laugh that made his entire, stupid, Time Lord body with its supposedly superior physiology clench with desire. And she would say, "Prove it."

And he would be lost. He'd sweep her into his arms, pulling her away from Harkness, who would probably be all too happy to _invent_ a bloody dance for her if it meant he got to hold her, and he'd lead her through the steps of whatever dance they were doing then, and it would be hours before he noticed where they were, when they were, or what they were doing. She'd be breathless and laughing, with delight and something he would refused to name in her eyes, and for just a fraction of a moment, he'd allow himself to believe in the fantasy that he was the one she wanted to be there _dancing_ with.

After the second time, he'd reluctantly given Harkness a key to the TARDIS so the other man wouldn't be stuck waiting for them to return.

And now – now his bloody useless ship was refusing to leave, and he was refusing to step foot outside of it. There were actual clothes sitting on the jumpseat for him! As if he'd ever lower himself to _change_! He waved the mallet again before sighing in resignation. His TARDIS was a stubborn old girl, and he well recognized the clothing. He knew what the ship had planned, had no doubt that Harkness and Rose were probably already getting ready – courtesy of his bloody-minded, meddling ship.

"Fine," he growled, throwing the mallet at the time rotor – and wincing when it made contact. "You win." He scooped up the formalwear and made his way to his bedroom, intending to get this over with as quickly as possible. He really should have seen this coming, after all.

When he was finished, he found Harkness and Rose waiting for him in the console room, both looking extremely well-dressed for the period, and he bit back a sigh. Stopping any comments on his attire in their tracks, he addressed his male companion. "Harkness, keep your flirts to a minimum tonight. I don't think you'd fancy a duel at dawn with someone's husband."

Harkness looked like he was going to open his mouth, but the look on his face must have been darker than he intended, because the man simply nodded quietly. Rose had tilted her head to the side curiously, but then shrugged, as if to say the vagaries of men and Time Lords were beyond her comprehension or care.

The TARDIS had materialized in a small cupboard, and he offered his arm to Rose, leading her and Harkness out through a side exit of the house (one more frequently used by servants) and then around to the front, where a stuffily dressed butler puffed himself up as he introduced each guest in turn.

"We're at the home of William Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire. I did him a bit of a favor, a long time ago, so he should recognize my name, if not my face – long story. His home – well, let's just say that the TARDIS was lucky enough to get us here during one of the rare times when he and his wife were getting along, and there wasn't a third person involved in his marriage."

Rose raised her eyebrow at this, but Harkness seemed to take it as a challenge, and the Doctor wondered why he'd even brought it up. He passed the psychic paper to the butler and waited for the man to announce them.

"My Lord The Doctor, My Lady Rose Tyler, Duke and Duchess of TARDIS, and Captain Jack Harkness of His Majesty's Navy."

The butler passed the psychic paper back to him and he stared at it for a moment. He didn't remember asking it to make Rose his wife. He'd intended for them to all be siblings. Of course, Navy would explain Harkness' attire. But still – Rose, his wife? That…was not what he'd intended.

"Can't let your mind wander when you're handing it over," Harkness whispered as he made his way towards a gaggle of giggling debutantes who would probably leave this ball knowing more about the marriage bed than any woman of the era had the right to know. The TARDIS had a lot to answer for.

The Duke and Duchess of Devonshire were leading the opening dance, and the Doctor groaned as he recognized the minuet, one of the few dances that required grace and precision of timing that he seemed to lack. Well, not exactly lack – just – well, alright, he didn't know the bloody steps, and of course, Rose was going to ask.

Her elbow was already in his ribs, having been looped through his arm as he escorted her into the house, and she nudged him gently. Her face was turned up towards him, that thousand megawatt smile in place, her little pink tongue darting between her teeth as she prepared, once again, to torture him within an inch of his next regeneration.

"What are they doing?" she asked.

"It's called a minuet," he ground out, knowing what was coming, hating the TARDIS in that moment for bringing them there.

"And of course you know it," she taunted, her haunting, teasing laughter bubbling across his skin as she leaned into him and he was blessed – no! – cursed! – with a view of her breasts pushed up by the ridiculous dresses that were required of the time period.

"Of course I don't, Rose!" he snapped. "It's a bloody minuet!"

Her smile faded and she stared at him for a few moments, and he knew she was taking in the scowl on his face, reveling in the triumph at finally finding a dance he didn't know, that any minute, she'd start to crow in victory. He should know by now, he realized a second later, to never, ever think he could predict the tiny human at his side. "Then waltz with me," she said, a small smile crossing her face.

He stared down at her, trying to catalogue that smile. It wasn't the teasing grins she usually gave him. It wasn't that 'you think you're _so_ impressive' smile that taunted him to prove himself to her time and again. It was soft, warm, inviting, and – he didn't dare go further than that.

"Rose," he said patiently, as though speaking to a small child – which, to be fair, in Time Lord years, she was just an infant. "This isn't quite yet the Regency period. The dress you're wearing is practically a scandal. A waltz on top of that? These people would never recover."

Her smile widened, turning into that taunting, teasing grin he knew so well, and he knew what she would say before the words were out of her mouth, but he found himself waiting for them anyway.

"Prove it."

So he did. He couldn't help it. He tried to remember the proper distance for this very improper dance for the very delicate time period they'd found themselves in, especially given the _very_ thin material of the trousers he was wearing, but his body seemed to have a mind of its own, and he found himself holding Rose much closer than propriety would allow, gazing down at her in the dress that was so light a blue it was almost white with the pearls at her throat and the curls at her ears – and how had she gotten her hair in the proper style, anyway?

And then they were moving, seamlessly, together, gliding across the floor, the awkward, daft-looking Time Lord with his too-large ears and too-large nose and tiny, perfect little human girl with her fake blonde hair and luminous hazel eyes that were looking up at him like he'd put the stars in the sky just for her and he would have, too, if he'd only known that there was someone in the universe like _her_ waiting for him to show them to her and dammit he was a bloody fool, but he couldn't help himself. He pulled her closer, tightening the hand that rested on her waist and sweeping her around the floor, vaguely aware that they'd broken up the formal dance taking place around them, that other couples had hesitantly joined in (probably led by Harkness, no doubt) and the musicians had started playing the scandalous waltz, but he couldn't seem to take his eyes off hers.

That soft smile was back on her face, the one that scared him more than a horde of Daleks, and her lips were parting slightly, and he knew – he knew – that what he was thinking was stupid, ridiculous, and there was no way he was seeing the invitation he thought he was in those huge eyes, but he couldn't help himself. He could blame it on the dance, later, he could blame it on the atmosphere, on the scent of jasmine that was drifting in from the open doors of the verandah to their left. He could swear it was the strains of the violin that had carried him away, temporarily made him crazy. Hell, he would blame anything and everything he could, but he knew there was no way he could prevent himself from doing what he was about to do.

As though she could read his thoughts, or maybe he was projecting them into her mind, anything was possible with how hard he was thinking it, she smiled wider, tilted her head back just a little, exposing the long line of her throat and he could swear he saw her swallow. He lowered his mouth to those full, soft pink lips and gently touched them with his own.

He didn't give her a chance to respond, terrified that she might run, or slap him, or do any other number of horrible things. He pulled back and continued dancing, sweeping her across the floor, trying to avoid the intensity of her focused gaze.

When he finally forced himself to look down at her, it was to see a glitter of unshed tears in the corners of her eyes, and a soft, tremulous smile hovering on those beautiful lips.

"Rose," he whispered. "This is really not the place or the time for that."

"And?" she taunted, one eyebrow raised in silent provocation.

He looked down at her face – that lovely, perfect face – and realized that there was no turning back if took this any further. "Back at the TARDIS," he said, slowly, putting it off until later, giving her time to think about it, to walk away from this, because he wasn't sure he'd be able to later – no, that wasn't true – he'd always be able to, he just wouldn't _want_ to.

She stepped back, breaking their dance, her hands sliding along his arms until she was holding both of his hands in her own. Her huge eyes twinkled up at him and her tongue darted between her teeth for a brief moment as she grinned.

"Prove it," she whispered, turning towards the cupboard where they'd left the TARDIS.

* * *

Inspired by lauraxxtennant's tags on a post of Nine and Rose dancing in the TARDIS on tumblr, written for Day 8 of the Doctor Who Fest.


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